Hall, Jessica

June
23,
1974

What the hell am I doing here?

Marc LeClare hauled himself up out of the mud and swiped at the
front of his clothes. Something that looked like dried spider guts had gotten
tangled around his fingers until he shook it off and saw it was only some
bedraggled Spanish moss. The stench of marsh scum filled his nose as the last
of the sunlight glimmered through the dense canopy of juniper and oak. Soon it
would be dark, and he was alone.

Alone, lost, and madder than a stepped-on snake.

Louis Gamble and his fraternity brothers would be parked out on
the interstate, all of them laughing at him and drinking the rest of the beer.

Marc wiped his filthy face on the sleeve of his equally filthy
jacket. "This time, they die."

Part of it was his own damn fault. His roommate had pulled plenty
of stunts like this on him since they'd been at college, and he should have
realized something was up when they roared past the city limits sign into the
back country. But he'd been pissed at his mother for insisting he set a date
for the wedding and at the same time harping at him for quirting the
football
team. The two beers Louie had helped him chug hadn't helped.

Drink up, drink up. Your mamma and your little girlfriend will
never know.

Louis had convinced everyone to pile into his van for a road trip,
and then had driven west, into the backwoods, down dirt roads, past truck stops
and boat shacks. Marc hadn't cared. Even when the van had died in the middle of
nowhere, he hadn't gotten suspicious.

Too much beer, not enough brains.

Damn, I thought I checked the oil last weekend.
As
always, Louis had kept a perfectly straight face when he'd turned to him.
Get
out and pull the stick, Marc. I swear, if there's a speck of black, I'm gonna
set this piece of shit on fire.
His friend had waited until Marc had walked
to the hood before Louie had slammed it into reverse and gunned the engine,
sticking his head out the driver's side window to hoot at him.
Still thick
as a damn brick. See you later, LeClare.

He should have stayed on the road; they'd come back in a few
hours. They always did. But tonight he didn't feel like waiting, and then he'd
seen a light shining in the swamp. He'd been drunk enough to think a light
meant a house, and maybe a telephone that he could use to call Louis—and then
he'd lost the light, and couldn't find the way back to the road—

Something crackled behind him. He swung around, fists ready.
"Shit, Louie, where have you assholes been? You are in serious fucking
trouble, leaving me out here in the middle of—"

It wasn't his roommate, but a young girl, standing on the edge of
the shadows. She stared at him with enormous, dark eyes.

Big-eyed because she'd heard every filthy word
he'd
just yelled. "Uh, hi. Sony, I thought you were—I didn't mean to scare
you."

The girl stayed where she was, and watched him. Mud stained her
small, bare feet, but her shabby dress was clean. Sweat darkened the too-long
fringe of dark hair over her eyes; the rest was caught back in a short
ponytail. An empty crawfish trap dangled from her right hand.

Marc's gaze went from the trap to the buttons just below her
collarbone. Judging by the curves straining the sides of the buttonholes, she
could be anywhere from thirteen to sixteen years old. What he couldn't figure
out was why he had the sense of knowing her. Almost as if they'd met before,
but not quite. It wasn't all that comfortable a feeling, either.

She noticed the direction of his stare and took a wary step
backward.

"Wait." Afraid she'd disappear, he started up the bank
toward her, slipped, and nearly ended up facedown in the muck again.
"Wait, shit! Hold on, I need some help."

"You lost, boy?"

Coach Lewis had called him
boy. You ain't no quarterback, boy.
Best thing you could do for this team is to take your dainty white Creole ass
on out of here.

He lost his footing and rapped the side of his head against a
low-hanging willow bough.

"Goddamn it!" He grabbed his head, which felt like it
was ready to split, then glared at her. "What the fuck do you think?"

She tensed, shifting her grip on the trap. "I think your mama
needs to use a whole lotta soap on that mouth of yours. 'Bye."

"Hey, don't go." He lifted a hand, then dropped it.
"Sorry—I'm sorry. I've had a lousy day."

"Do tell." She studied him, and her frown eased a notch.
"Where you come from, boy?"

Her funny, singsong way of talking made him inspect her again.
Could she be a Cajun? He'd heard his mother say they were worthless and
ignorant and stole whatever wasn't nailed down. But this girl didn't look
stupid or criminal, just poor.

"My name's Marc. I'm from the city." Guilt prodded him
as he realized how he must seem to her—a big, dark guy covered with mud who
used swear words in every other sentence—so he stayed put and tried to sound
harmless. "What's your name?"

"Genevieve."

"Nice name." Like a princess from a fairy tale.
"You live around here, right?"

"Oui."

Better and better—she knew her way around, then. "Can you
show me how to get out of here?"

She thought about it, long enough to make him start itching with
fresh sweat. At last she swung a hand toward the trees. "This way."

He followed her through the hip-tall weeds, away from the
riverbank and up into the trees. What was she doing, running around out here
near dark? Setting crawfish traps? He picked up the pace as she got farther
ahead of him, but not knowing the uneven ground the way she did made it
impossible to catch up.

"Ginny, wait up—you're going too fast."

She stopped and waited until he caught up. He thought he heard her
mutter something about city boys before she asked, "What're you doing out
here in the Atchafalaya anyway?"

Feeling and acting like a horse's ass is what.
"My
friends
thought it would be a good joke to get me drunk and dump me out here."

"That's not funny." She took his arm and tugged, guiding
him around a dark-leafed plant. When he glanced back he saw it was a huge clump
of poison ivy. "You don't act drunk."

"Takes more than a couple of beers to do that." Her hand
seemed so small on his sleeve. All her nails were short and bare, trimmed
straight across as if someone had clipped them with a pair of scissors. She
smelled faintly of soap and sunshine, and made him realize how bad he must
stink. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen next month." She cocked her head to one side.
"You go to college in the city, Marc?"

"Yeah, I'm in my sophomore year." He hated it. "I'm
nineteen."

"My cousin Darel's nineteen." She made a gesture toward one
side of the bayou. "He doesn't go to college, but he never gets
lost."

"I've never been in the swamp before." Feeling
defensive, he swiped at his jacket again. "You live with your
cousin?"

"No." She pointed past a pair of oaks at a faint,
glowing light. "That's my house up there."

As they got closer, Marc saw that the house was little more than a
clapboard shack. It sat a few yards off a smaller branch of the Atchafalaya,
huddled under a pair of ancient, gnarled oak trees. How could a whole family
fit in such a tiny place? The utility shed in the back of his house was bigger.

"You live with your parents?"

"Oui.
Papa traps and fishes, and Mama sells
bait for the fishermen who come. So do I." Her expression changed as she
watched him. "What, you don't like fish?"

He tried to imagine his elegant mother selling bait. Not even if
someone drugged her. "I like it fine." He glanced at the house, and
thought of the other few rumors he'd heard about Cajuns on the bayou. Some
people said the men shot first and asked questions later. "Is your dad
going to be pissed—uh, upset—to find me with you?"

She shook her head. "You haven't done anything wrong. Papa
will take you back to the city."

Marc hoped so. He didn't want to get shot. Didn't want his mother
getting wind of this mess. He also had to take care of Louie and his frat
brothers. Big-time.

Yet all those troubling thoughts slowly slipped away as the last
rays of sunlight touched Genevieve. She had white, flawless skin, the kind that
made her eyes seem almost black. And her hair... God, her hair was gorgeous.

No girl he'd ever known looked like her. Sounded like her. Smelled
like her. She was as exotic and out of place as a butterfly in a garbage dump.
That sense of knowing surged inside him again, but this time it came with heat
and wanting. If his hands hadn't been so filthy, he would have touched her.

"Will you come with us?"

"Into the city?" She laughed a little. "Why?"

He found a clean spot on the side of his jacket and wiped off his
hand before he took hers. She had little calluses on her palm, but her hand was
sturdy and strong. That was when he knew, just as surely as if he could see
into the future. They were meant to meet. Meant to touch.

She was the one.

I'm going to marry this girl.
"I'd like to
talk to you some more."

Today

"Wow."

Isabel Duchesne closed the door behind her and walked into the
empty warehouse, eyeing the dimensions of the main floor and the two rows of
windows on each side of the building. After trying for almost a year to find affordable
office space for her community center—and failing—she could hardly believe all
this would be hers.

It's the least I can do for you, Sable,
Marc
LeClare had said after he proposed donating the vacant warehouse property he
owned for her project.
Think of how good this will make me look in the
polls.

She remembered returning his infectious grin.
As long as you
don't take it back when you're elected governor.

Marc had mentioned that a cabinetmaker had rented the warehouse
for a number of years, which would account for the faint smell of pine that
still lingered. The cobwebs, old sawdust, and rows of empty steel shelving
would have to go, but the large, open space was truly ideal.

More than ideal—it was perfect. And it was
hers.

Sable couldn't help laughing with delight as she
turned
around, looking at everything. She had been resigned to squeezing everything
into whatever tiny space she could rent, but now she'd have enough room for
reception and intake desks, offices for her and the volunteer staff she
intended to recruit, and perhaps even a prenatal and pediatric screening area
for pregnant mothers and young children.

"Oh, you've definitely got my vote, Marc," she murmured
to herself as she wandered around the main floor. Overhead were lofted storage
rooms which could also be put to good use. "This is almost too good to be
true."